


Ouch

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Angst, Ficlet, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:54:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21589468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Hugh can’t just enjoy himself anymore.
Relationships: Hugh Culber/Paul Stamets
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38





	Ouch

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

In the privacy of his own quarters— _just_ his quarters—Hugh finally lets himself unwind. He sinks into his bed, slumps against the headboard, his pillow protecting his lower back from the metal edges. He pushes down the loose sweatpants that Paul gave to him and thinks of the hurt in Paul’s eyes when they made that exchange. Paul gave him everything he’d need to live alone. Paul looked like he was about to break, but he did it, and when Hugh tried to shake his hand afterwards, he jerked away as though burned. 

That final memory should be a deterrent, but it isn’t, because it drowns under a hundred other memories of having Paul in better circumstances. Hugh swore to himself he wasn’t going to do this. But his new body feels so _raw_ , so new and rife with base emotions it hasn’t yet learned to take. He looks at Ash Tyler, and he feels _angry_ , more than he can possibly keep down. He looks at Paul Stamets, and he feels _lust_ , but forces that down because he couldn’t hurt Paul, even now. 

It _would_ hurt. Hugh’s fingers slip beneath his hem, skimming under his boxers, cupping himself as he settles back and pictures it—what it’d be like if he just tried to be what Paul wanted. He _can’t_ , not anymore. He remembers seeing Paul sweating and writhing beneath him, holding onto Paul’s chiseled hips as Paul bears down over him, cramming sideways into a little bunk with Paul, and fooling around in a public washroom even though they both know that they shouldn’t. He knows what Paul looks like just before the point of no return, how he sounds when he’s about to come undone, how _warm_ his body gets when Hugh shows him even the slightest bit of affection. But somehow, Hugh doesn’t know what that _feels_ like. It’s pure contradiction. He has the memories but can’t interpret them. He doesn’t know anymore what Paul’s shoulder would taste like in his mouth or how it would feel to drive deep inside Paul’s body. He knows it would be so much better than his hand. He knows that Paul would _love_ it. 

But Paul’s incredibly intelligent. He’s so much more _sensitive_ than people give him credit for. Sooner or later, he’d realize that he was making love to a stranger. That would just break him all over again. And Hugh would get annoyed, because Paul was the one that wanted them to pretend nothing was wrong. They’d yell at one another, and a thousand other things would crop up—how Hugh remembers Paul always being _gone_ and Paul hating it when he yells, but he’d yell anyway because Hugh can’t help himself anymore. He feels like he’s going crazy. _Has_ gone crazy. Paul had no business dragging him back. It’d just bring on a storm. It’s better for both of them that he stay away. 

It’s hard when Paul’s so handsome and suddenly agreeable and probably willing to do anything at all that Hugh says. Hugh tries to imagine what it’d be like, strolling down to Engineering, proclaiming that they could work it out, and taking Paul right there. He could kiss Paul back against that infernal spore drive chamber and fuck into him until the glass finally shattered. 

Hugh shivers, stroking his cock in real time, just like he thinks of stroking Paul’s. He knows _exactly_ what Paul’s cock looks like. Intellectually, he knows how warm it was in his hands. He remembers almost choking on it the first time he went down on Paul, not for a lack of his own skills, but because Paul couldn’t sit still. Paul was a neurotic mess that went _wild_ in bed. Hugh actually had a limp afterwards. Hugh could really use a rough fuck right about now. 

Except Paul wouldn’t be rough with him anymore, because Paul’s even more of a wreck in the wake of Hugh’s death. Hugh knows that if he marched over to his old cabin and shoved Paul up against the wall, it’d wind up with them both sprawled out in bed, going slow and steady, Paul surrendering to Hugh’s every whim even though it used to be such an even playing field. And Hugh couldn’t take that right now. He’s lonely, _horny_. He jerks himself off to the thought of _fucking Paul_ and tries _so hard_ not to conflate that with feelings. 

He couldn’t resume even that aspect of their relationship. He couldn’t just say _let’s start over_ or even _let’s just fuck_ , because he knows Paul doesn’t really want that. At least, not _just_ that. Paul _loves him_. That’s so painful to think about. Paul would want so much more that Hugh can’t give him anymore. Hugh scrunches his eyes closed and tries to stop, because it’s not helping, it’s just making it worse—he needs to stop pining after Paul too.

But there’s no one on the ship even half as cute as Paul, even if he’s just trying to go by looks. He tries to discard everything else. He tries to pretend Paul’s smile doesn’t make him weak and he isn’t touched whenever Paul plays opera for him. Objectively speaking, Paul has the best ass.

Hugh thinks of that ass, thinks of thrusting into it and leaning over Paul, cupping Paul’s cheek, kissing Paul’s face, littering his pale skin in little fleeting touches before closing around his lips—Hugh imagines slipping his tongue into Paul’s mouth and relearning what Paul tastes like. Feeling Paul moan around him. Hearing Paul’s body sing for him. Listening to the rhythm of them becoming _one_.

He thinks of looking into Paul’s eyes and feeling Paul shudder beneath him, knowing _he_ gave Paul that pleasure. He realizes he doesn’t even want to get himself off. He wants to _make Paul happy_.

He comes with a broken sob, spilling a pathetic amount over his own hand. He looks down at it and hates it. His hand’s too dark, his fingers too short—he wants it to be _Paul’s_ hand instead. 

Hugh curls up on himself, feeling so profoundly _alone_.


End file.
